Within the Flow of Time

I often ponder how this river flows whether I am here to witness it or not. It's very impersonal. The water is flowing as I write this and as it flowed before the internet or anything familiar existed. I can imagine the sound it's making right now in the dark of night. It's the same sound as during the day.

Dams have been on the site for centuries but the current one dates only to 1934. I wonder how long it took for geese, ducks and swans to find their way to its top to rest and preen. Most animals are smart and practical; I imagine they started taking advantage of it pretty soon after it was built.

I also wonder how many poets and romantics have haunted the fringes of its white noise and scenic vistas. How many human worries have come to rest on the shore or been allowed to flow to the Atlantic Ocean on the steady current. Have those cares been taken up by kingfishers and herons? Have they been trampled by ducks in times of low water? What happens to the woes of the world when they are relinquished to the flow of the Universe? Do they turn into seafoam or galaxies? Are those unanswered painful questions knit into the flesh of clams and cormorants? I wonder. Bonne nuit.

Ducks swimming upriver
11-10-15
crayon 

Geese on top of the dam in the rain
11-11-15
carbon pencil

Geese on top of the dam
11-11-15
conté pencil

Ducks, after the Paris terrorist attack
11-14-15
chalk, crayon

Reflections, ripples
11-16-15
ink, charcoal

My birthday swan
11-16-15
ink